


Notes

by Insomnia_Productions



Category: Original Work
Genre: I had so much writer's block, I say notes but there are letters and texts and tape recorders and stuff, I spent a year writing this, a friggin year, a series of suicide notes, and the reactions of the people receiving them, heavily based on myself and my friends/family/experiences, seriously my mom suspiciously side-eyed me for a month after reading this, the actual boy is only shown through the notes, the story revolves around the friends and family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 06:15:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7497189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insomnia_Productions/pseuds/Insomnia_Productions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five notes to five people who deserved one last goodbye. </p><p> </p><p>Five notes to five people to who should have looked past the smiles of one.</p><p> </p><p>Five notes to five people who loved Maven Reid.</p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>(I'm sorry this summary is useless and pretentious but I can't do the story justice with a summary)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Whomever This May Concern

It is at 21:53 on a rather cold Friday night that the body is found by an elderly couple out on their evening walk. They are too old, now, and too easily tired to leave the modern, frustratingly high-tech condominium, so every evening at 21:40 they begin their nightly stroll around the glittering pool. They like coming at this time because the hot Singaporean climate is significantly cooler, the still air often graced by a gentle breeze that ruffles the foliage as crickets begin their song. Best of all, the world is quiet. The children in the houses above have long since been sent to bed, and the two of them can walk for hours in silence, quietly enjoying each other's company. 

Tonight, however, their walk is interrupted by a rather odd sound. At the time, 21:50pm, the couple is at the farthest point from the building, all the way on the other side of the pool, watching the funny little frogs hopping from behind the clump of palm trees planted by the water. They do not see the figure on the roof, balanced precariously on the ledge, its back to them, slowly tipping toward the ground. They do not see the black shape toppling down, and they do not see it hit the floor. 

But they hear the sound, and they resume their walk, faster now, and the old man slips his hand into his wife's and squeezes. 

_ It's nothing _ , his eyes say.  _ Don't worry _ . 

At 21:52, the couple arrive on the scene. 

The first thing they notice is the collection of crimson droplets spattered across the grey tiles. The drops lead back to a rapidly growing puddle of dark red, seeping out from under the light blond locks that frame a face that is so, so pale. 

The old lady lets out a small cry, falling back against her husband, who envelopes her into a tight hug. After a moment, they turn their attention back to the body. 

He looks familiar, surely, and now that the old man thinks about it, he’s almost certain he’s seen the young boy around. 

Yes… he’s an expat’s son, moved in a few years ago, although the old man can’t quite recall how many. He’s a quiet boy, the old man remembers, with a smile that lights up the whole condo, even on the cloudiest days. He doesn’t come down often, and when he does it’s late at night, around the time when the couple are heading upstairs. He always looks tired on those nights, brown eyes dull and ringed with shadows, but he always greets them with that sweet, boyish smile. The old man and his wife always loved the boy’s smile. 

He’s smiling now, the old man can see that in the dim glow of the lights tethered to the trees, the festive lights of the New Year three days ago, but it seems more true than before. The boy’s smiles before were always honest and meaningful, not like the empty smiles the old man has grown used to receiving, but there was always something off about them. A weariness behind the curve of his lips, a fatigue hidden by the blond hair that always flopped over his tired eyes. Now, his smile is pure, the mask gone, and the old man sees only contentedness in his face. 

His wife nudges him gently, looking up at him. 

_ Call someone,  _ her eyes instruct. 

The old man retrieves his phone from his pocket and quickly calls a guard, the nice one who insisted on giving the old couple his number, in case anything should happen on one of their walks.

Twenty minutes later, the couple stand to the side as police hover around the body on the floor, taking notes and muttering amongst themselves. The boy’s mother kneels on the ground beside her son, her face held in her hands, shoulders shaking. Her husband crouches beside her, one hand resting on her back, the other stroking her hair, eyes fixed on the boy, as if maybe if he stares long enough, his son’s eyes will open. 

The old woman rests her head on her husband’s shoulder as they watch, hearts going out to the younger couple. 

“Uncle? Auntie?” 

The two look up to see a young officer facing them, holding a crumpled piece of paper into the light. 

“It’s addressed to you.” 

Exchanging puzzled glances, the couple walk over, nodding at the officer. 

“Would you read it?” The old man requests. “Our eyesight isn’t quite what it used to be.” 

The officer glances towards the parents, and the father nods, gently imploring his wife to listen. 

The young officer clears his throat, looking uncomfortable, and reads:

_ To whomever finds me: I'm really sorry you had to see this. I tried to wait until everyone was gone, so you wouldn't have to see me fall, but someone must find me eventually. I'm sorry for ruining your evening. I just couldn't think of any other way to do it. Please forgive me.  _

The boy’s mother lets out a strangled sound, lowering her head back into her hands as her husband cradles her, tears welling in his eyes. He hides his face in his wife’s long, blond hair, but his eyes are still on his son. 

The old woman moves forward, gently setting a hand on the boy’s forehead. 

“You are forgiven,” she whispers. 

The boy’s mother cries harder.

The old woman takes her hands and squeezes, and her husband lays a hand on the man’s shoulder. Together, they offer their well-wishes, and then leave the grieving couple to comfort each other in peace.

The old couple arrive back in their apartment, where their daughter and her husband are waiting, having put their twin sons to bed. The daughter greets them politely, asking if they enjoyed their walk, and the old man answers that is was quite nice, thank you, knowing she’s not really listening. She and her husband had, of course, offered to let them stay here with them, when the time came for the old man and his wife to move somewhere they could be cared for, and they had gratefully accepted. They knew, they always knew, that the young woman and her husband had hoped they would politely decline. But what to do? When your parents need help, the only socially acceptable option is to give them help. 

There is no need, now, to tell them about the boy and put a damper on their evening, and have them wish all the more than the old couple had never moved in. 

“Well,” the old woman says, putting a hand on her husband’s arm. “I think we’ll retire for the night. Won’t we, dear?” 

The younger couple wishes them good night, smiling blandly as the couple retreats to their bedroom, those same empty smiles that the old couple have grown so accustomed to. 

As the old man closes his eyes, he thinks about them, the smiles. 

He sees them from his son-in-law whenever they’re forced to make conversation. 

He sees them from the cleaners when he says hello, and from the live-in maid every time he wishes her good morning. 

He sees them, occasionally, from the teachers at school, on the rare days when he is allowed to come pick up his grandsons. 

Most of all, he sees them from his daughter, who has long outgrown him, but knows she cannot say so.

And then, amidst all the dull, grey blankness, there is the glowing yellow light of the young boy. His is the smallest smile of them all, the tiredest, yet it is the brightest in the old man’s eyes, giving off a shine to rival the sun. 

But that glow has dimmed, tonight.

He is going to miss the boy’s smile. 


	2. Don't Stop Laughing

[Message from KawaiiDesune at 17:23]

_ Yoooooooo anyone got plans for tonight? Cuz if not then maybe we could meet up? I haven’t seen you guys since LAST YEAR  _

 

[Message from The-Soapiest-of-Operas at 18:41]

_ oh my god did you just _

 

[Message from Nerdy-Birdy at 19:12]

_ Yes, I have plans. But they’re not exactly… orthodox... Friday night plans.  _

 

[Message from Demon Weeblet at 19:14]

_ Heh? Tf are you up to? _

 

[Message from KawaiiDesune at 19:14]

_ oooooooo is it something naughty~ _

 

[Message from KawaiiDesune at 19:15]

_ you know you can confide in us… we won’t judge…  _

 

[Message from KawaiiDesune at 19:15]

_...too much.  _

 

[Message from Bubbatrex at 19:15]

_ pshh, knowing Maven, it’s probably just doing fifty thousand pages of calculus… for fun…  _

 

[Message from Demon Weeblet at 19:15]

_ Seriously though, are we meeting up? _

 

[Message from The-Soapiest-of-Operas at 19:15]

_ It’s late…  _

 

[Message from KawaiiDesune at 19:16]

_ truuuuuu but we don’t have to have like dinner or whatever, we can meet at Riverside?  _

 

[Message from The-Soapiest-of-Operas at 19:16]

_ oooooooooh yasss can we go on the swing thingy? And one that launches you up in that open-air ball thingy? I’ve always wanted to do that.  _

 

[Message from Demon Weeblet at 19:16]

_ hell yeah _

 

[Message from KawaiiDesune at 19:17]

_ So Riverside at… 8?  _

 

[Message from Bubbatrex at 19:17]

_ k, but I’ve gotta be home by 9:30 _

 

[Message from The-Soapiest-of-Operas at 19:18]

_ sounds good, I guess we should all try to get home by then. my mom gets stressed out when im out too late even though this is singapore _

 

[Message from KawaiiDesune at 19:20]

_ What about you, Nerdy-Birdy? _

 

[Message from KawaiiDesune at 19:23]

_ Nerdy-Birdy~~~~~ _

 

[Message from KawaiiDesune at 19:25]

_ Guess you’re not coming then.  _

 

[Message from Nerdy-Birdy at 21:35] 

_ Hey, guys. By the time you read this, the news will probably have spread, so this won’t come as a surprise. First of all, I just want you to know that it’s not your fault. I swear. People always think that they must have done something, or that they should have seen it coming and done something to stop it. Like they should have made that extra effort to say or do something that might have altered the outcome. But you couldn’t have, believe me. It’s entirely my own problem, okay? So please, don’t beat yourselves up over it, and don’t blame yourselves. Please don’t worry about me, because I’m… happier, this way. Things are better, this way. You guys are great, and I can’t put into words just how amazing the past few years have been with you. Thank you for being my friends, and always being there for me. I know what you’ll say— that I never came to you guys for help, that it was always you who came to me. But honestly, just having you guys there, cracking jokes and being weird, was enough for me. It eased the load, I suppose, your lightheartedness keeping my darker thoughts at bay. I will forever be grateful to you for that. Heh, listen to me. I sound like I’m writing a novel. You’re probably laughing at me, now. Please, keep doing that. Laughing, I mean. Please don’t let my decision weigh you down. Please, please don’t cry for me. I can’t bear the thought of any of you guys being upset. All I’ve ever wanted is for you guys to be happy, and I’m sorry for hurting you. I’m sorry for being so selfish. So please, forgive me, and please, don’t stop laughing, not even for a little while. _

_ I love you guys.  _

_ Thank you for everything. _

 

[Message from Conniefer at 21:40]

_ HEY! You guys!!! You left me behind!!!! =( _

 

[Message from Conniefer at 21:40]

_ wait…. what??? _

 

[Message from Conniefer at 21:40]

_ Maven?? _

 

[Message from Demon Weeblet at 21:41]

_ Holy shit dude… are you okay? _

 

[Message from Demon Weeblet at 21:41]

_ What happened?  _

 

[Message from KawaiiDesune at 21:41]

_ Oh my god _

 

[Message from KawaiiDesune at 21:41] 

_ Mavey, are you there? What’s wrong?  _

 

[Message from Conniefer at 21:42]

_ Please talk to us!!!  _

 

[Message from The-Soapiest-of-Operas at 21:42]

_ Guys, he’s not online!  _

 

[Message from Conniefer at 21:42]

_ But he was JUST here!  _

 

[Message from The-Soapiest-of-Operas at 21:42]

_ MAVEN!!!  _

 

[Message from Demon Weeblet at 21:43]

_ We have to tell someone, NOW _

 

[Message from Demon Weeblet at 21:43]

_ I’ve gonna tell my mom to call his mom  _

 

[Message from KawaiiDesune at 21:44]

_ HES NOT ANSWERING HIS PHONE  _

 

[Message from Conniefer at 21:44]

_ You don’t think he …. oh god I can’t even say it please tell me it’s not that _

 

[Message from The-Soapiest-of-Operas at 21:44]

_ SHUT UP  _

 

[Message from Demon Weeblet at 21:44]

_ Mavey, come online!!!  _

 

[Message from The-Soapiest-of-Operas at 21:45]

_ come online come online come online _

 

[Message from Conniefer at 21:45]

_ Please!!!!  _

 

[Message from KawaiiDesune at 21:45]

_ MAVEN!!!!  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The initial dialogue feels sort of cringey, but honestly this is what actual conversations with my friends sound like so


	3. Requiem

Matthew Chase wakes up late on Monday. 

After staring blearily at his ceiling for ten solid seconds, he groans and rolls out of bed, stumbling to the bathroom to get ready for another day of trying in vain to hold the attention of a group of tenth grade students who couldn’t possibly care any less about music. 

Ah, well. At least he’s got class 10-C today. Matthew smiles. 

Class 10-C. The one batch that the young music teacher can tolerate with just  _ one  _ cup of coffee, and  _ one  _ smile from his favorite student. 

Maven Reid likes music, likes his classes, likes  _ him.  _ For a brand-new teacher struggling to support himself, his wife, and his four-month-old daughter, a student like that is just a step away from an angel sent from heaven. Not to mention, the extra wages he receives for Maven’s after-school singing lessons are often enough to buy special presents for his two special girls. Which is not to say that half an hour of the boy’s sweet smiles and lilting voice isn’t payment enough, but still.

Recently, however, things have seemed a little... off. Maven’s eyes seem duller, his voice sadder. Matthew wants to talk to him, to help him, but he’s not sure how. He hasn’t known the boy for long, but his impression is that the blond bookworm isn’t the sort to share his burdens. 

“Have a great day, Mattie! I’ll bring Sofie to pick you up at 5, okay?” His wife smiles up at him, cradling their daughter. Her green eyes are ringed with shadows, but they sparkle all the same when he ruffles her hair. “Oh, and you got a letter from Maven. I put it in your briefcase.” 

“Thanks, hon.” Dropping a kiss on his sleeping daughter’s forehead, Matthew grabs an apple off the table and rushes out the door, arriving at the bus stop just as the bus doors prepare to close. Settling into a window seat, he sets his briefcase on his lap and pulls out the white envelope, carefully easing it open and taking out the neatly folded paper. The handwriting is, as always, immaculately tidy and perfectly serifed. 

_ Matt,  _ it reads, and Matthew takes a moment to smile at the familiarity. 

_ Matt, by the time you get this, I assume you’ll already know, so I want to begin with saying I’m sorry. Really, I am. You told me that you use your earnings from our lessons to buy gifts for your family. I’m sorry to have taken that from you. Furthermore, I’m sorry for any pain this may cause you. We haven’t known each other for long, but you’re one of my favorite teachers. You really understand me, although I’m sure you feel as though I never allowed you to. Rest assured— you know me better than you think. Your lessons and encouragement really kept me going. Thank you for that. So, please, don’t feel as though you should have picked up on it, that you should have done something extra. Don’t feel as though you could have altered the outcome in any way, because you couldn’t have. Trust me.  _

_ I remember, a few months ago, you taught me about requiems. You said I have a natural aptitude for them, even the instrumental ones that I just hum. I’ve sung so many, now,  so many that you would laugh every time I brought you a new song, and tell me to try something cheerful for once. _

_ You couldn’t have known that I wasn’t capable of that.  _

_ But… for you… I think I might be able to try. Because you’re my favorite teacher, because you believed in me, encouraged me, laughed with me, sang with me. Because I owe you that much.  _

_Enclosed in this letter is a USB with a recording of something a little more optimistic— Swedish House Mafia’s ‘Don’t You Worry, Child’._ _It’s not entirely to the best of my capabilities, as you did not instruct me, but I’d like to think that it’s good enough. I hope you like it._

The bus pulls to a stop in front of the school. Matthew lowers the letter. 

_ What? _

He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t  _ want  _ to understand. 

Matthew likes to pride himself on being a persistent, attentive teacher, always energetic, always encouraging his students to pay attention, even on the worst of days. 

But today, that all goes out the window. He floats through his first two classes in a distracted haze, watching the clock out of the corner of his eye, until at last, the hands drift to 1:05pm. 

Class 10-C shuffles into the room. 

Matthew’s eyes go straight to the desk at the back of the classroom, next to the window, where the afternoon sunlight drifts lazily onto an empty chair. 

Class 10-C sits. 

The chair in the back remains empty. 

Matthew Chase gives his students a pop quiz he’d been saving for next week and walks out of the classroom. 


	4. Wasn't It Easier In Your Firefly Catching Days?

Clarissa Lorden is making hot chocolate. It’s a cold January morning, so such an act would, to the casual observer, seem ordinary, perhaps even expected. But to anyone well-versed in the laws of the Lorden household, this simple act would be something of an anomaly. Clarissa Lorden does not condone the consumption of factory-made sugars. The Lorden household kitchen contains no ice cream, no candy, no chocolates, and absolutely  _ no  _ Coca-Cola. And yet, here stands the perpetrator of the rule herself, making hot chocolate with extra chocolate. There are even marshmallows floating on top. 

Clarissa Lorden picks up the steaming cup in one hand and walks up the stairs, pausing to knock gently on the polished mahogany door of her sixteen-year-old son. 

“Hey, sweetie,” she says softly, resting a palm on the door. “I’ve brought you some hot chocolate. May I come in?” Receiving only a soft sniffle in response, Clarissa eases open the door and steps into the room. Inside, the room is impeccably neat, a stark contrast from its usual state of chaos and anarchy. Clarissa assumes that this is because her usually so energetic son has not moved from his self-constructed blanket burrito in a few days. He hasn’t been eating much, either. Clarissa sets the hot chocolate down on the table beside his bed and cups his face in her hands, pressing a kiss to his forehead. As she draws back, she remembers the small box that arrived in the mail earlier in the day. It had been inside a larger envelope with an address, but the cat had gotten to the envelope before Clarissa, and she had long given up trying to piece together bits of paper once they’d been passed through Tamika’s sharp claws. The box, however, was untouched. It is small and brown, with River’s name written on it in neat, seriffed black pen. It looks vaguely familiar, like a distant memory, although Clarissa can’t quite place it.

“River, this box came for you in the mail. Would you like to open it?” 

River Lorden only sniffles again, screwing icy blue eyes shut and retreating further into his blankets, but an up-and-down shift in the blue sheets indicates an affirmative response. Clarissa opens the box. Inside is an old-fashioned tape. She takes the tape and presses play. The soft, gentle voice of Maven Reid floats out, and Clarissa’s arms instinctively find their way around her son. 

_ “Hello, River.”  _ There is a pause.  _ “I’m sorry. I was going to start with a  _ Saw  _ reference, but I think you’d be mad at me if I did that.”  _ From inside the blankets, there comes a choked sound, a pained union of laughter and sorrow. 

_ “In any case, if you’re listening to this, then it must have already been a few days. I want to start off by saying that I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. It’s been some time since we last saw each other in person, and I know that staying in touch has been a trial, with such different time zones, but I think we managed just fine. You’re my oldest friend, my best friend… and I know we’ve both grown up, we’ve both moved on and made new friends, but no one has ever come close to what you are to me.”  _ Maven laughs slightly, and the sound warms the room.  _ “I still remember when we first met. Do you? We were four years old, and our mums had taken us to South Park. There was a section of the park that was full of tall evergreen trees with hardened blue berries that turned green if you scratched them. And there were daisies. Pink daisies. I’d never seen anything like it, and I loved them so much that I sat down right there and started picking the prettiest ones. You ran up to me then, and I remember that my first thought was to wonder how someone’s eyes could be so icy, and yet burn so fiercely. You sat down next to me and placed a hand on my shoulder, and then very solemnly informed me that picking flowers was for girls. And I just laughed and threw the daisies at you, and they got all tangled in your bird’s nest of black hair, and you looked so funny that I completely lost it. You got up and ran off and I thought you were mad at me, but you came back with a handful of those berries, and the flowers still in your hair. You said you were a master botanist, although you called it ‘bottomist’ at the time, and you said that the berries were super healthy and totally edible, to quote. I was dubious, and you decided to lead by example. I don’t even know how you managed it—I tasted one after you’d left, and it was disgusting, but you ate five, just like that. Afterwards, you got sick, and your mum had to take you home. But before you left, I gave you a flower and told you to get better soon, and our mums thought it was so cute that they arranged a play-date for us the next weekend. And we’ve been the best of friends since.”  _ Maven laughs again.  _ “Now that I think about it, we’re really cliche. I was always the quiet one, the studious one, the one who would frown at you and tell you that whatever you had just said was the worst idea imaginable. And you… you were the wild one, the reckless one. You were so full of life and laughter, like nothing I’d ever seen before. The Cecil to my Carlos, to allude to  _ Welcome to Night Vale _. Thank you, by the way—I don’t think I ever really thanked you for introducing me to what may be the greatest podcast of all time. _ ” 

The blankets shift, slightly, and Clarissa hears a hoarse whisper. “You’re welcome.”

_ “As we grew older, you only seemed to glow brighter. There were so, so many days when I’d be lost in my own mind, drowning in textbooks and formulas, and you would be my light, my life jacket, my breadcrumbs in the forest. Just when I thought I was lost forever, you’d appear in the doorway with a football, bouncing and laughing and yelling so loudly we’d get noise complaints from the neighbours. Then you’d drag me away from the stress and the work, out into the fresh air where we’d run wild for hours, until the sun had long set and our parents had to peel us off the ground as we lay half in the grass and half on each other, exhausted, but blissfully so. River, in the eight years we spent together, and even in the years after, you taught me how to love life. I’m sorry I couldn’t follow your teachings. I hope you can forgive me. Goodbye, River. Love you loads.”  _

The tape ends with a sharp intake of breath and a click. There are tears in Clarissa’s eyes, but River’s sniffles have stopped. He’s trembling; the navy blankets around him shiver and quake like the sea on a stormy night. It may be the most he’s moved since he heard the news. Clarissa was the one to tell him, with tears spilling down her cheeks and her phone gripped so tightly in her hand it’s a miracle it didn’t break. River had stood in his doorframe, just staring at her as she stumbled over the words. That had been the worst part—the stony, silent staring, devoid of emotion. Then he’d simply shut the door, and the next time she opened it, he was lying in bed, surrounded by blankets, his face buried in a pillow already soaked through with salty tears. 

He is not crying now. He only trembles, shaking so much that the whole bed seems to creak and rock. Clarissa sits with him, stroking his blanketed form in silence until the sky is dark and it’s time to heat the dinner. Somehow, Clarissa doubts they’ll be eating in the dining room tonight. She rises from the bed, giving her son another quick kiss, and makes her way out of the dark bedroom. It hasn’t been this dark in a long time, as the youngest Lorden likes to keep everything as bright as possible. It hasn’t been this dark since Maven moved, four years ago. 

Clarissa hopes, wishes, prays that her son will recover from this. That soon he will leave this dreary world he’s shut himself in, and allow himself to heal. But for now, that time seems so very far away. 

Clarissa shuts the door quickly on her way out, but not quite quick enough to miss the muffled sounds of anguish as River covers his face and screams. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please don't sue me taylor 
> 
>  
> 
> this is by far my favorite chapter
> 
> I love River and Maven so much ;—;


	5. One Selfish Act

Abigail? Hon? Abby?

Abby, a letter came in the mail today. It’s… it’s from Maven. Do you want… all right. I’ll read it to you, then. Is that okay? Okay, honey, just come sit here with me. Please? I’ll make you some coffee. 

Here, nice and warm. Should I…? Okay. 

_ Dear Mum and Dad _ … oh, shh, it’s all right, it’s going to be okay. We don’t have to continue, you know. We can wait—oh. Are you sure? All right. 

_ Dear Mum and Dad, I would like to start by saying that I… that I love you… very much. Mum, I love your warm eyes and your warmer smiles. I love how you always smell like paper and home-cooked meals. I love the long, meandering stories you would tell me when I couldn’t sleep, and I love the sound of you singing old folk songs as you iron the washing.  _

I… Abby… God, I’m not sure if  _ I  _ can do this, either. Okay. Okay. I’m. I’m fine. All right. Let’s continue. No, I—I really want to. I want to know… 

_ Dad, I love… I-I love your laughter, I love the way the world would spin as you lifted me onto your shoulders and ran through the park. I love your bear hugs, so large you would fit both me and River, or just me, when we moved and I couldn’t stop crying. I love your barbecues, I love your… I love your room, with papers strewn across the floor, covered in equations, and you and me seated amongst it all.  _

Oh, God, Maven… no, no, it’s fine. I’m all right, hon. No, I think we should… he wrote this for us… we owe it to him to… 

All right. Next… next line. 

_ You must be wondering, if I loved you so much, then why…? I’m sure you think that it was your fault. It’s only natural, but I want you to know that it wasn’t. Other people will tell you this, too, and you may not believe them, but please, believe me. It wasn’t your fault. It was all me, so please don’t feel guilty. Please, for my sake.  _

How… how can you ask that of us, Maven? You must know… oh. Oh, god. He’s… he’s explaining. He’s telling us why. I can’t… 

Oh. Of course… you’re right, Abigail. But I’m not sure I’m ready to know. 

We may never be… huh. That’s true. That’s true, Abby, but. Ha, using my own words against me, are you? Yes, I suppose… we do owe it to him to know why. Yes, I’ll hold your hand… I don’t think I could read this without it.

_ You, both of you, are… wonderful parents. You raised me to be studious, to always try new things, to strive to be the best I can be. And I have, all my life, I have.  _

_ I joined the Model United Nations club, because I wanted to learn how to make peace in a way that didn’t involve war. I took countless courses outside of school with the Johns Hopkins University’s online program, because you said I should get ahead. And I loved them, all of them, really, I did. I took singing lessons, and when you encouraged me to sing at my school’s Friday lunch concerts, I practiced extra hard, and I did. And, of course, I kept up with my schoolwork, my tests, my projects, maintaining the highest honor roll every semester. I had to, because… because you… asked me to.  _

Oh, no… no, no, please no… Maven… we never wanted… please, don’t tell me… 

Y-yes, you’re right as always, Abby. We won’t know for sure unless we… 

_ You… supported me. Always. You encouraged me. Believe me when I say that I never felt bullied by you. I promise. But, even so, the pressure of being, as you would often put it, the Dream Child, began to get to me. I was balancing so many things, that it eventually felt like I was caught in a juggling act that never ended… with the audience constantly throwing more objects into the circle, heavier ones that became harder and harder to control. The objects I was juggling began to slip. I managed to catch them, at the last moment, every time, but I felt like, at any moment, the whole pile could collapse and crush me.  _

Goddammit. God… fucking…  _ dammit _ , Mavey, why didn’t you say something? 

I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… shh, Abby… you said to keep reading, right? So we should… there, shh, you’re okay. Let’s just hear him out, okay? Okay. 

_ I kept smiling for you, for everyone, never letting on what I was feeling. I didn’t want to burden you with my own inadequacy. I didn’t want you to worry about me. You had your own problems, after all… everyone did. My friends, although smart, were beginning to struggle in school. They complained so much… and because I had good grades, I thought… I really couldn’t complain. Then, Mr Chase… he asked me, sometimes, if I was okay, but he had his own wife and daughter to worry about, so I didn’t tell him, either. And you… well, of course, I didn’t want to worry you, but also… I didn’t want to disappoint you. I didn’t want you to know that I wasn’t that perfect… wasn’t the Dream Child you believed I was. Even so, my grades began to slip. A small slip, really… so small that no one ever noticed, but I did. I knew that these small slips were the falling objects… they seemed so irrelevant, but I’ve juggled before, at the school fair back in London, and I know that even the smallest of trips can lead to destruction. I was scared, so scared… scared that soon the objects would fall from my hands and scatter across the floor, and everyone would know that I’m not… who they think I am. These feelings built inside me for so long, like a coil of barbed wire in my stomach.  _

_ And then, one day, I woke up, and I didn’t want to get out of bed. I woke up and for a long moment, I wanted to—  _

No. No, I can’t, I can’t read this, I’m sorry Abby, I know what I said but I— 

I… I know. I know. I was trying to be strong, but… 

I don’t… have to be strong? Ha… if only… someone had told Maven that. 

All right. Let’s just get through this together. 

_ I… I woke up and for a moment, I wanted to… I wanted to die. That thought scared me enough to get up, and for a few weeks, I managed to force it out of my head, but it weighed on me… like a black mass, resting on my shoulders. It took all my strength not to sag when I walked, not to let the people around me see it… and I had no strength left to fight it. I told myself that I couldn’t… do  _ that _. I would hurt you, hurt all my friends… and all my life, all I’d ever tried to do was make you happy.  _

You did, Maven. You did make us happy… always… always.

_ But then I started thinking that… well… you’d be sad for a while, right? But, given a few years… you’d move on. Maybe you’d never stop being sad, deep inside, but… you’d be all right. The hurt wouldn’t be permanent. Whereas, if I continued on this path, if I continued to slip until the objects fell, I would just disappoint everyone. I would end up hurting them—you—more. I would never stop hurting you with my failures… so I thought, maybe it’s better to just end things now. Like… ripping off a bandaid, rather than peeling it slowly. I kept thinking that… and then it was New Years. The time for fresh beginnings. We had our party… everyone was there… I sang… and then the clock struck midnight and everyone toasted to me—to another year  of stellar grades and performances, to the dream child, the perfect child, the over-achiever everyone loves. And I smiled and thanked you and hugged everyone goodbye, but inside I just felt more scared. Everyone expected so much from me… how could I disappoint you like this?  _

_ I think that’s when I decided… but I made myself wait, just a few days, until the New Year spirit had faded. I didn’t want to cause trouble so soon in the new year, but I couldn’t hold out for that long… so I wrote these letters, and then… well… then I mailed them, and… now you’re reading them. And crying… Mum’s probably been crying since you got the letter, and Dad… I’m sure you’re the one reading it, and I bet you’re crying now, too.  _

_ And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for being so selfish… but, after all these years… I’m allowed just one selfish act, right?  _

_ I’m sorry for hurting you. I’m sorry that I’m not the person you think I am. I’m sorry that, despite what I’ve said, you will continue to believe that this was your fault, although I promise you that it  _ wasn’t _.  _

_ I’m sorry that I don’t know how to end this letter… save to say that I love you. So, so much. And… I want you to be happy. I know it’s an unfair thing to say, after what I’ve done, but  _ I’m _ happy… so, please… for me… don’t be sad.  _

_ I love you. I’m sorry. _

That’s it, Abby. That’s… all of it. 

Ha… ha… he was right on the bat, about the crying and the reading… wasn’t he? He knows us so well. God… why… why didn’t  _ we  _ know  _ him _ ? Abby, we’re his  _ parents _ , how did we not see… how did we not realize… 

God _ dammit _ . We didn’t want you to be perfect, so why…? God— _ fuck _ —I don’t… I don’t know what to do, Abby, he did this because of  _ us _ … he says not to blame ourselves, but we’re the ones who taught him… we’re the ones who put so much pressure… 

Yes, I know we didn’t  _ realize  _ that he was struggling, I know we  _ thought  _ he was happy, but that’s the  _ point _ , isn’t it? Who cares how good he was at acting… we’re his parents and we should have  _ known.  _ We should have known. 

No, I can’t calm down… I can’t, Abigail, don’t you get it? We did this, we killed him. We killed him… 

Shit. Shit, shit, I’m sorry. Oh, God, Abby, no, please don’t cry, I’m sorry, I… I didn’t… I’m so sorry. I didn’t meant that… I didn’t mean… 

No, Abby, it’s  _ not  _ true. I was upset… Maven said it wasn’t our fault… 

Because we have to. We  _ have  _ to believe him, Abby… or… or else… 

I don’t know. I don’t know what… but, Abigail, we have to believe him, we have to believe that it wasn’t us. 

We have to. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's the end... I hope I was able to explain Maven's feelings accurately enough. 
> 
>  
> 
> I hope you liked it~

**Author's Note:**

> This is the note that started the whole project. I imagined someone so considerate of others that they would write a note apologizing to whomever had to find them, and Maven stemmed from that. 
> 
> Oh, yeah, and this story is set in Singapore, which is where I lived until about a month ago.
> 
> As always, please comment if you really like something, and I hope you enjoy the rest of the notes~


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